Problem Site
by TheWoody
Summary: Sherlock has arrived just in time to witness how the Irishman twists John's left arm behind his back. The brute's right hand holds a hunting knife to the smaller man's neck and a wicked grin forms on his face when his gaze falls on Sherlock. - A botched chase triggers a flashback in John. TwoShot with a bit of BAMF!John
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:**  
Sherlock bbc is property of bbc, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.**  
**My undying gratitude goes to Arthur Conan Doyle.

This story is un-betad and not brit-picked!

**Ex ante:** English isn't my original language and this is the first time I actually dare to post a fanfiction under those circumstances. I'm well aware that I've probably made a lot of mistakes but I'm quite proud of this little piece of creative writing.  
So please: leave me some honest criticism and point my mistakes out to me. I'd love to improve my English and writing fanfiction is a wonderful way of doing so. :-)

**TwoShot**

**Problem Site I**

The dark alley echoes with the staccato _pitch, pitch, pitch_ of Sherlock's fast footfalls. The adrenaline of the hunt humms loudly in his veins and he isn't even slightly aware of the water that soaks the hems of his expensive trousers. Every rapid exhale condensates to a little white cloud, that loses itself quickly in the darkness. The ice cold November rain flattens his dark curls to his skull and stings on the exposed skin of his face but his busy mind has already deleted the discomfort he is feeling. His body is just transport after all.  
In the forefront of his mind he is calculating, planning, mapping out the most likely route their suspect will take though this labyrinth of backstreets in this shady part of London. His right hand closes around his mobile and his nimble fingers fly over the keys and press send without further thought.

_Dockland Road, next Shanghai Palace – left right left. Intercept! SH_

If John is fast enough, they stand a good chance to get McKay off the streets tonight. Sherlock skids around a corner, leaves the lights of the waiting squad cars behind. Now the reflection of the pale moonlight in the numerous puddles is the only illumination in those narrow streets. The spine-chilling atmosphere, created by this otherworldly light, would have driven every normal pedestrian back to the well light main streets, but the world's only consulting Detective races headlong into danger. The glorious rush of the chase drives the blood into his cheeks and paints his face with a healthy flush. This is what Sherlock Holmes lives for: The riddles, the deductions and the chase.

The Yarders are still trying to seal this district off but they have neither the personnel nor the time to do a sufficient job in this regard. DI Lestrade is a moderately intelligent man but bureaucracy, limited recourses and most of all the imbeciles he works with prevent any form of effectiveness when it comes to New Scotland Yard. It's a terrible waste of potential on Lestrade's part, it really is. The man has his moments but it's a sad fact of life that the likes of Anderson, Donovan and Co. render them almost always useless.

Sherlock reaches an intersection, pauses and holds his breath to listen to the faint sound of McKay's steps. To the right. His assumptions have been correct – _obviously_. Nevertheless; a spike of triumph drives a wild grin on his features and he resumes his chase. Soon. In approximately eighty-three seconds Harrison McKay will reach the location he texted to John. And if everything went according to plan Lestrade can execute one more arrest warrant before the night comes to an end.  
It isn't in Sherlock's nature to rely on others when it comes to his cases or affairs. He prefers to work alone and his plans are always perfectly executed but sometimes he is dependent on the resources and authority wielded by the Yard. And then there is John. Former soldier and Doctor med. Unassuming, jumper wearing, John Hamish Watson. And on first glance it's kind of astonishing, that Sherlock prefers Johns help over the meddling of the Yarders. But resources and authority be damned, Watson is…

A loud crash disturbs the nightly quiet and Sherlock lengthens his strides. That was earlier than he had anticipated… Just a moment later he turns around the next corner and comes to an abrupt stop. It seems John has indeed found McKay; or rather McKay has found John. Sherlock has arrived just in time to witness how the Irishman twists John's left arm behind his back. The brute's right hand holds a hunting knife to the smaller man's neck and a wicked grin forms on his face when his gaze falls on Sherlock.  
The Consulting Detective huffs – it's an extremely irritated sound – and frowns at John. His highly trained mind is already busying itself; deconstructing the situation and searching for possible solutions. John has been fast. So he either has been riding in a squad car – and in this case reinforcements are only seconds away – or he has been running all the way up here and Lestrade and his men will have to search for them. The blonde doctor isn't much of a sprinter but he is good over long distances and the thin sheen of sweat on his brow and the rapid movements of his chest point definitely to the second option.

_Both are symptoms of fear._ Sherlock dismisses this thought instantly. John has proven more than once how steady he can be when under pressure.  
The knife at his throat forces John's head back against McKay's shoulder in a parody of intimacy and the man's grip on his left arm gives him no other option than to follow his movements if he doesn't want to risk a luxation of his shoulder joint. Chances to break free: less than thirteen percent! Sherlock himself doesn't carry a weapon and John's Browning lies safe and sound in the top drawer of his bedside table. The police are still too far away to be of any help. Therefore it's impossible to force McKay into letting the Doctor go.

Summarized: No chance to solve this situation when no change in external circumstances.  
Solution: Stall for time!

Sherlock takes a step towards McKay. "Detective Inspector Lestrade knows that you are the one who murdered the twins. His men have blocked every possible escape route and they are already on their way to arrest you." Well, that isn't necessarily the truth, but the Consulting Detective continues without missing a beat. "You should give up. You're only postponing the inevitable."  
McKay spits. "Shut it, Holmes!" He doesn't retreat but the frosted black blade of his knife cuts painfully into the vulnerable skin of John's throat. "I'll kill'im. Dontcha think I won't!" His accent broadens noticeable. The army doctor hisses defiantly but his Adams apple bobs nervously when he swallows.

The expression on Johns face and yes – every single line of his body - literally show how much he hates this. Being a hostage; again! Being in a situation where he has to rely on Sherlock coming to his rescue; again! John has been a soldier for more than fifteen years. The army has taught him how to fend for himself and this is a skill he is proud of. He is angry because of his own helplessness and it shows in the sharp lines around his mouth. But his hazel eyes meet Sherlock's grey ones with a soundless apology.

_This is my fault. I could have avoided this._

Sherlock shakes his head in an answer to this silent confession. Accusations won't help them now. Again he steps forward and this time the Irishman draws back. "Drop the knife and let Dr. Watson go! To kill him will accomplish nothing."  
"So? Doesn't matter if I'm doing time for one more cold body then, eh?" McKay's vulgar grin makes Sherlock's skin crawl and John holds his breath. He is looking at his flatmate, waiting for a clue but Sherlock won't give anything away. He is still biding his time.

For a few precious moments Holmes and McKay stare each other down and the other man seems to falter under Sherlock's icy glare. The bite of the knife lessens for the fracture of a second; John narrows his eyes and seizes this opportunity. His right arm shoots up; he pushes the knife away from his body and twists out of McKay's grip. The weapon clatters to the ground somewhere in the darkness. The Irish murderer curses, tries to grab John's jacket but misses by an inch. Stumbling one, two steps forward, the doctor tries to regain his balance but McKay overcomes his surprise faster. He kicks John in the back of his knee and forces him to the ground. His fingers close around Johns left wrist, twist his arm and yank it upwards. This action draws a short painful gasp from John and McKay answers with a warning kick to his ribs. Simultaneously he draws his gun.

Sherlock starts moving just a second after John. He rushes to McKay in an attempt to subdue the man but he isn't fast enough and finds himself facing the barrel of a black Walther P22. The Consulting Detective has studied sidearms meticulously in the past. Has learned how they work. The technical and mechanical details. The effect such a weapon has on a person – physical and psychological. And he has discovered that pistols do have different characters. Some of them are beautiful, designed to be admired. Others are sporting, elegant or even playful. The P22 McKay holds in his shaking hand fits none of those attributes. That one looks downright malicious. And it points exactly between Sherlock's eyes.

"Stand back!" McKay sounds nearly hysterical. His voice shakes just as much as his hands do. He is losing his nerves and that doesn't bide well for John. Sherlock retreats to a safer distance immediately, both hands halfway up, the palms facing frontwards. His body language as unthreatening as possible.

"Easy." McKay laughs.

His eyes don't leave Sherlock but his next words are obviously meant for John: "Dontcha dare and try somethin' like tha' again!" He shakes the blonde man like a dog, places his heavy boot on John's left shoulder – his bad shoulder – and pushes downwards.  
The angle is conceivably unfavourable. Something in John's shoulder gives way with an unnaturally loud crack. Sherlock winces at the tortured scream that tears from his companion's throat and if it weren't for the gun still pinning him into place, he would've already given in to the urge to tear McKay apart.  
John's painful scream has woken something primal within the Consulting Detective. A strong need to protect his friend, to remove him from harm's way and keep him safe. Nobody messes with his friend - with _his John_ – and walks away from it.

"Let him go!" Sherlock's hands are balled into tight fists to fight off the tidal wave of emotions that threatens to drown him. He cannot allow this to cloud his judgment. If he wants to save John he has to stay calm, can't allow himself to care.  
His eyes search John's instinctively, but the ex-army doctor just stares unseeingly at the ground. His face is chalk white and he is shaking like a leaf.  
Nobody moves. For a moment the whole tableau seems to freeze, the constant drip of raindrops on pavement the only sound in this private little hell. And then they can hear the first clatter of the approaching yarders.  
_Finally!_ Sherlock suppresses a relieved sigh. He honestly can't remember the last time he was so glad to see NSY arrive.

McKay on the other hand sucks in a panicked breath. The man tries to pull John to his feet with a brutal yank. John cries out again and then goes completely limp in McKay's grip.

"John!" Ignoring the threat of McKay's gun Sherlock rushes to help his friend and what happens next is so jumbled and distorted that even our great Consulting Detective is hard pressed to remember the exact order of events when he is asked to give his statement a few days later.

McKay stumbles, taken by surprise by John's dead weight that pulls him down so suddenly but he still manages to pull the trigger and time seems to speed up. The bullet hits the brick wall next to Sherlock's head. Sharp fragments of stone explode outwards and leave small bleeding wounds on his face.  
And at the same time John kicks backwards and brings McKay down with him. He throws himself over the other man and smashes his right elbow into his nose. The Irishman roars half angry half in pain and tries to buck the doctor off. It should have been easy; John is half a foot shorter and about three stone lighter than him after all. But the determined snarl on John's face shows clearly that the mild mannered doctor has taken a step back. It's John the soldier McKay is dealing with right now and this man is evidently a force you have to reckon with.

John's movements show a confident effectiveness and routine that stuns Sherlock into speechlessness for about four and a half seconds. The Consulting Detective grinds to a halt and just watches, while his _- oh so unassuming -_ flatmate brings McKay under his control.  
Watson straddles the bigger man's chest; McKay's right arm wedged under his knee and his left secured by his trainer-clad foot. John's right hand mashes the left side of McKay's face into a puddle of rose tinted rainwater and his left… Well; Sherlock really wonders how John got a hold on McKay's hunting knife but his hand is shaking so badly, that the wicked black blade carves an unsteady line right above the man's larynx. A thin trail of dark blood sneaks it's way downwards over pale skin.

"John… Don't." Sherlock hesitates, unsure how to respond to this situation. He can't see John's face but his posture is… _wrong_ in a way, Sherlock is unable to describe.  
This of course is the exact moment Lestrade and his colleagues choose to make an appearance.  
"Your timing is absolutely terrific, Lestrade. Just as usual," Sherlock remarks instead of a greeting.

The DI huffs. "If you would have bothered to clue us in, we could have…" His eyes dart over the bleeding wounds on Sherlock's face and voice trails off before he continues in a resigned tone: "What did you do this time? Sherlock, you know that you…" And that's when he sees John; perched over their suspect like a giant bird of prey. Lestrade closes his mouth with an audible click. "John?"

"What the hell?" Sally Donovan stops short; her weapon fisted in both hands, ready to fire. "What did you do with him, Freak? 'S he on drugs?"

"If you have nothing to offer but unqualified remarks, I'd recommend you use that limited brainpower of yours to concentrate on your gun before you hurt someone with it." Sherlock doesn't even look at her but Sally bristles up visibly.

"Damn Freak. Don't you…"

"Stop it! Both of you!" Lestrade interjects resolutely. "John, put the knife down. We've got this under control." He ignores Sherlock's doubtful snort but when John fails to react he starts to frown. "John?"

Sherlock's hand on his arm holds him back when he starts to approach the blonde man.

"Don't." An odd reluctance lies in Holmes' voice. Lestrade throws a questioning glance in his direction but Sherlock ignores it in favour of crouching down to have a look at John's face. His features are still unhealthy pale and his eyes are wide open. At first sight he seems to stare at McKay's face – a grotesque mask with his bashed in nose and all the blood - but Sherlock doubts that's what he is seeing. His body may be here, in this dark wet alleyway in central London, but his mind probably lingers a few thousand miles south-east of this city. In the dark reddish-brown highlands of Afghanistan.

Sherlock hasn't known that John was prone to flashbacks; at least he has never witnessed one before. But he knows that flashbacks and nightmares are typical symptoms for people who suffer from PTSD. And how often has he already heard John's helpless, terrified screams or whimpers in the middle of the night. How often has he seen those dark smudges under the man's eyes the morning after?  
Yes; Sherlock does indeed know about those. What he doesn't know is what his friend is capable of when he is trapped in one of those hallucinations.

Lestrade's eyes dart from Sherlock to John and back again. "Sherlock, what…"

The Consulting Detective holds up a hand without looking up. "Shh. Let me talk to him."

"Sir, you can't seriously consider…" protests Sally, but Lestrade silences her with a strict glare.

"I can. And I will. I think he knows what he is doing here. So leave him be, Sergeant."

Sherlock doesn't look up to watch Sally's reaction. His concentration rests solely on John, who is still hovering over a positively terrified McKay without moving so much as a muscle. But he feels a warm spot of gratitude for Lestrade deep inside himself. The DI _knows_. Knows about John; knows about what they are dealing with here. And he trusts Sherlock to bring his friend out of it.

The alley, the cold rain, the Yarders and even McKay fade into the background while Sherlock focuses on John Watson. Still hovering in a crouch he begins to ease his way over to his friend. Hands open in a soothing gesture and muttering quietly: "John? Can you hear me?" His right foot clatters against the discharged gun and the ex-soldier tenses visibly. "You're in London, John. You're safe. London, not Afghanistan." Careful and with overly slow movements he pushes the Walther behind himself. Out of sight.

He is nearly close enough to touch now. "John, please look at me." Sherlock's voice is no louder than a whisper but this time John finally responds. His head jerks up so suddenly, that the vertebrae in his neck crack in protest. Those hazel eyes rake about his body, observe every little detail with the sort of accuracy one only obtains in life-or-death situations; Sherlock's unthreatening posture, his open hands, the blood on his face. _Unarmed but close enough to pose a threat_. Slowly the black blade retreats from McKay's neck, hovers uncertainly in the air. John's hand is still shaking. His fingers are pale and there is no strength behind his grip on the weapons handle.

_Circulatory disorder, shoulder possibly broken or dislocated._ Sherlock has never felt the need to rifle through John's medical file and he has never asked about it, but he has seen the scars on his flatmates shoulder. Those of the actual bullet wound and of the surgeries afterwards. _Serious damage to the scapula and the surrounding tissue, muscles and ligaments. Therefore instability of the shoulder joint. Extremely protracted healing process. Probably not completely recovered yet._

Unknowingly McKay has found John's weakness and exploited it; and by doing so triggered a flashback in the good doctor.

Sherlock's steady grey eyes capture John's gaze and latch onto it. "John? Let him go. Please let Lestrade and his men do their jobs so we can go home for a cup of tea? I don't know about you but I'm freezing."

John blinks. His breath hitches and then he looks at Sherlock. _Really_ looks at him. His eyes wander to Lestrade and Donovan, to McKay and then, again, to the Consulting Detective.  
"Oh my God!" Those whispered words carry such an abysmal terror, that Sherlock shivers involuntarily. "Oh my God, ohmyGodohmyGodohmyGod…"  
The ex-soldier lets go of the knife with something akin to revulsion and slides sideways from McKay's body till his back hits the wet brick wall of the nearby building. And there he sits, knees pulled to his chest, left arm cradled to his side and with the wide eyed stare of a frightened animal.

McKay scrambles in the other direction, staring at John with a mix of fear and utter hatred. "Tha' was aggravated assault! I'm goin' ta press charges!"

Sally pulls his hands behind his back unfazed and cuffs him. "Yeah. Whatever." She looks up to John and asks: "You all right, Doc?"

John gives her a wordless nod, but he is breathing so fast, he is nearly hyperventilating. His whole body has started to shake and this is such a startling contrast to his previous stillness, that Sherlock bridges the distance between them without hesitation and sinks down at his right side – mindful of his injuries. Cold rainwater soaks his coat and trousers but Sherlock ignores it for the time being.  
He puts a hand on John's right arm in a soothing gesture. "It's over, John. It's all right."

The shorter man just shakes his head. "No, it isn't. It isn't." His voice breaks at those last words and a violent sob shakes his body.

And then Sherlock surprises everyone - including himself – by cradling John's head to his shoulder with his left hand. He runs his fingers through the short blonde hair, wet and heavy from the rain and holds his friend close. John's right hand latches onto the fabric of Sherlock's coat and he buries his face into the larger man's neck.

Lestrade looks down at them with a thoughtful gaze. "Ambulance is on the way", he informs Sherlock and the Consulting Detective answers with a grateful nod.  
Sally Donovan has already left, escorting McKay to the nearest squad car. While they are waiting Lestade is standing guard over the two flatmates huddled together in a miserable dark alley in this shady part of London.

And when Sherlock finally feels John's hot tears on the cold skin of his neck it's just one more reason to hold on tighter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:**  
Sherlock bbc is property of bbc, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.**  
**My undying gratitude goes to Arthur Conan Doyle.

This story is un-betad and not brit-picked!

**Ex ante:** I owe a big, big thank you to everyone who reviewed. Guys; you are so great. *hug* Your kind words mean the world to me.

English still isn't my original language. So please if you find any mistakes don't be shy to tell me.

I have to start the second part of this story with a bit of a warning. I never intended for the storyline to go that way. It's rather angsty and fluffy and all that… Sherlock and John are perhaps a bit OOC Here; I told you, so please no flames…  
The boys just somehow took the plot and run of with it. But I hope you enjoy anyway!

So please leave me a review and tell me what you think. :-)

**TwoShot**

**Problem Site II**

Of course neither John nor Sherlock go back home to Baker Street that night. Hours of waiting and sitting in cheap plastic chairs in the A&E's waiting room have put Sherlock in a considerably bad mood. The hospital staff is avoiding him like the plague and since he is not related to his flatmate none of them are forthcoming with information.

Dawn is already painting the sky with a symphony of red and pink when the Consulting Detective finally manages to bypass the nurses on duty and sneak into the treatment room John occupies at the moment. In one hand he holds a plastic cup of hot tea, in the other a sorry excuse for a blueberry muffin he got from one of the vending machines in the lobby. It's not that he is hungry, but – so he argues – John is injured and therefore has to eat. Sherlock sincerely doubts that those ignorant nurses have brought him anything and since he knows that blueberry is John's favourite he went for the muffin spontaneously. Even if it isn't actually breakfast material.

He fuddles a bit with the handle before he manages to pull the door open. John is sitting on the examination table, striped to the waist and wearing some sort of improvised sling on his left arm and shoulder. The overeager paramedics have cut his jumper and t-shirt open, since he couldn't move his arm without being in a considerable amount of pain and both articles of clothing are beyond salvation now. Seemingly oblivious to Sherlock's entrance John stares at the opposite wall with an empty gaze. He appears to be deep in thought, almost even catatonic. His right hand is clutching a disposable blanket that lies next to him on the cot.  
That won't do. Sherlock frowns and speaks up in that tone of voice John has never been able to resist: "John."

The blonde doctor startles visibly and grimaces in pain before he looks up at his tall flatmate. Sherlock feels a spike of guilt but chooses to ignore it. "I brought you breakfast," he says and offers his purchases with an earnest expression.  
At this a small smile curls the corners of John's mouth. "Thank you." He takes the cup with his right hand and ignores the muffin for the moment. Not that he could hold it anyway.

Sherlock closes the door behind him and seats himself on the cot at his friend's side. His fingers fuddle unconsciously with the wrapped up muffin, reducing it to a mass of crumbs while his eyes glide over the naked skin of John's shoulder; take in the dark bruises under his collarbone and shoulder blade that are visible next to the material of the sling. The skin of his left arm looks paler than the rest of his torso and the beds of his fingernails show a light bluish tint, which confirms Sherlock's earlier assessment of the situation. John's injury hampers the blood flow somehow. The tissue looks swollen; puffy and sore and there is the indistinct shape of an internal fixation plate visible under the skin that covers the scapula. But the joint in itself doesn't appear to be distorted.

"How are you?" There is genuine concern in this dark voice and John shrugs with his right shoulder in some sort of lopsided dismissal.

"They gave me something for the pain. If I don't move it doesn't even hurt that much." He sights. "Still waiting for the scan results but I'm pretty sure I broke something…" He trails of and shakes his head absentmindedly. "In any case; the ultrasound doesn't look so good. I'm bleeding into the muscle tissue."

There is an almost imperceptible tremor in his voice that tells Sherlock how shaken he really is. John is afraid that – perhaps – this incident has damaged his shoulder irreparably. That this time the damage will be permanent.

"There is no reason to jump to conclusions, John. As long as you don't have the necessary data you shouldn't concern yourself with 'what if's'. It's a needless waste of time and you'll only drive yourself into a state of agitation."

John huffs without a trace of humour. But he recognizes Sherlock's very own brand of comfort, so he forces himself to answer: "Yes. You're probably right."

"Oh, I'm definitely right."

John doesn't answer to that and silence descend onto the room. Sipping his tea the smaller man returns to his dark thoughts. But the silence doesn't last for more than two minutes. Sherlock has never been one to sit still over long periods of time (not counting his own very extensive bouts of brooding) and true to his character he jumps up to throw the mutilated muffin into the waste basket and then starts to pace.  
John watches him with tired eyes and puts the empty cup aside. With his waterlogged suit and lacking his undoubtedly dirty coat the tall man looks like a bedraggled scarecrow.

After two rounds across the room Sherlock stops in front of John: "Aren't you cold?"

John shakes his head in negation. "No, I'm good. What about you? Did they clean those wounds out?"

Sherlock huffs. "Yes. Those insufferable nurses did indeed insist on tormenting me with antiseptic swipes and plasters." He sighs dramatically. "I got rid of them immediately."

"The nurses or the plasters?" asks John. He has indeed noticed the absence of plasters on his flatmates face but the verbal banter keeps his mind from other things and so he is just too willing to indulge his eccentric friend.

"Both of course." A quick grin darts over Sherlock's aristocratic features. "Did you have the pleasure to make the acquaintance of Nurse Carter? That woman is a menace."

John rolls his eyes. "She dressed my shoulder, actually."

"And?"

"Well; I was lucky Doctor Hanson interrupted before she was able to molest me." It is far more than those words deserve, but they have to somehow vent the tension that has built up since the incident with McKay and so they both start to laugh. But just a moment later John stops with a pained gasp. His right hand grabs his left upper arm in an attempt to ride out the sudden waves of pain.  
"Okay. Laughing is no good," he wheezes.

Sherlock stares down at his flatmate. "Should I call for a nurse?" His intention is clear. _If you need something for the pain just say so! _But John shakes his head. His eyes are firmly closed and he uses some sort of breathing exercise to weather this spell out.  
The Consulting Detective watches with interest as John's body starts to relax again. "Interesting technique. You learned that after you were shot in Afghanistan."

It isn't a question but John feels the need to confirm his words anyway. "Hmm." His eyes are open now, but the doctor keeps them firmly on the grey linoleum of the floor. "When I was strong enough to survive the transport they moved me to the field hospital in Kandahar. I spend the next two weeks there. The hospital was absolutely overcrowded and they… they didn't have enough morphine to keep us all constantly medicated. Told us something about a shortage of supplies. That's rather ironic, you know. Afghanistan is one of the largest suppliers for heroin on the world market. We all have seen those endless poppy fields out there. They are rather hard to miss…" John's voice is flat and sounds far, far away, but Sherlock doesn't interrupt. It's the first time John talks about his time in the war on his own accord and Sherlock would have expected curiosity on his part; the burning need to know more he is so familiar with. But no. Johns posture is neutral and his voice betrays nothing but his words cause a hot burning pain within Sherlock's chest.

_When I was strong enough to survive the transport…_ Those words make him positively sick. Sherlock has known – on a purely intellectual level – that John's injuries had to have been severe. The entry and exit wounds the bullet has left behind indicate as much. But it's one thing to know this and another to _really_ _know_ that John has nearly lost his life in that foreign country. Sherlock has to force himself not to choke when the full impact of this statement hits him. _What if John had indeed died down there? He can't imagine leading a life without his flatmate/blogger/friend anymore. Doesn't want to…_ he has to make a conscious effort to force his overactive mind to stop.

John looks at him with a wry smile that indicates he knows exactly what his friend is thinking. He concludes: "But to be fair I have to admit that I was pretty out of it most of the time. It wasn't that bad actually." Sherlock doesn't know if those words are for John's benefit or his own but John doesn't meet his eyes so this question remains unanswered.

The blonde sighs and presses his lips together in an uneasy gesture. "Sherlock?" He hesitates. "I'm sorry; you know?"

Sherlock blinks. "What for?"

"For McKay. For losing control like this." John's hazel eyes ghost through the room in a restless hurry, looking everywhere but in Sherlock's direction.

"Nonsense." Sherlock frowns down at the other man. "You have nothing to apologize for. That was…"

"No, Sherlock! I can't afford to lose control like this. It's dangerous; I'm…"

"John!" A clear warning.

"I could have killed him. I could have killed _you_."

"That's nonsense, John! You wouldn't hurt me, let alone kill me." Sherlock doesn't like the direction this conversation is taking and his hands accompany his words with pointed gestures.

"You don't know that." John's voice carries a certain finality that makes Sherlock's hackles rise.

"Of course I do! And do you want to know why, John?" With his typical disregard for personal space he puts his hands to the sides of John's head and forces those expressive eyes to meet his own. "Because I know you. I know you are a good man John, so stop selling yourself so damn short."

The swear word sounds strange in combination with Sherlock's posh accent but John doesn't remark on it. His eyes burn with an angry intensity the Consulting Detective has never seen there before. John's right hand closes around Sherlock's wrist in an iron grip, but he doesn't try to wrench his hand away. "You have no idea what I'm capable of." The underlying darkness in this sentence is positively frightening.

But Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he was impressed that easily. "You fought in a war, John. I'm well aware of the fact that you are capable of killing a man. Very well aware if you care to remember." None of them has ever spoken of the incident when John shot the cabbie to save Sherlock's life. It's like an unspoken agreement between the two of them. A secret too dangerous to put it into words. Because for John it could mean a life sentence in prison.

The atmosphere in the room is so thick you could cut it with a knife and neither one of them hears the soft knock before the door opens. They are so caught up in their staring contest that Lestrade has to clear his throat loudly to announce his arrival. "Am I interrupting something?" he asks with a pointedly raised eyebrow.

They let go of each other like school boys caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Sherlock steps back and throws the DI a superior glare. "Of course not. We were just discussing something and I am pretty sure we've come to a satisfactory agreement."

This ambiguous statement makes John groan but Lestrade grins unabashed. "Sure. Whatever you say." He turns to John and releases an impressed whistle: "They really did quite a number on you, heh?" It's obvious that his words don't refer to the growing bruises on John's shoulder.

The doctor looks like he wants to disappear. John isn't self-conscious about his body. He knows that he is in a good shape but he isn't comfortable with putting his scars on display. For many people knowing something and seeing it are two entirely different things. And in John's experience people just look at him differently after they have seen his scars. It's like they can't help themselves but imagine how the bullet tore through his body to leave a damage like that. Sherlock has been a positive exception in this regard. He has just looked and prodded with his typical detached, scientific interest, filed the results of his observations away in this amazing head of his and has never spoken to John about it again.  
Lestrade has known beforehand that John has been gunned down in Afghanistan, but he hasn't actually seen the mess this sniper's bullet has left him with.  
And now the man is staring. Staring at the uneven, frayed exit wound the bullet has left beyond his collarbone, already faded to a silvery white and the angry red surgery scars over the bullet wound itself, on the ridge of his shoulder and at the groove between his pectoral and deltoid muscle. And the DI hasn't even seen his back yet.

Sherlock stops Lestrade's curious examination by stepping between him and his flatmate. "What do you want? Is there no one you can pester at the Yard?"

The DI visibly pulls himself together. "Well; I knew I'd find both of you here and I wanted to remind you that we still need your statements for the files. Besides… besides, I wanted to ask how John is doing." He walks around Sherlock to have a second look at John and this time his eyes remain steadfast on the smaller man's face. He clears his throat awkwardly. "Sorry about my reaction earlier. I was just… surprised, I guess. How is the shoulder?"

John accepts the apology with a small hesitant smile. "It's okay. You're hardly the first one to…" His right hand flutters in an indefinite gesture. "And about the shoulder; I don't know yet but I'm pretty sure they will have to operate to fix the damage." He grows silent with a resigned sigh.

"Crap. Sorry to hear that."

"Don't be." John shakes his head. "It could be worse. Dr. Hanson seems to think that the joint in itself isn't affected. That has to count something, right?"

Lestrade buries his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. "Hmm. Well, I certainly wish you all the best John. But I have to be on my way. They are waiting at the Yard… So. Take care." Lestrade and John shake hands and the DI nods at Sherlock when he passes him but then he hesitates and turns back to them: "By the way, John; don't worry because of McKay's threat to press charges against you. Sally talked him out of it."

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. "Donovan? That woman is full of surprises. It seems she is useful for something at least."

"Don't be mean, Sherlock." John frowns at his flatmate before he turns to Lestrade: "Please thank her for this on my behalf. I owe her one."

Lestrade grins: "Sure."

The next moment someone nearly shoves the door into his back. A tall man clad in blue scrubs under a white coat enters the examination room. "I'm sorry you had to wait, Dr. Watson, but…" He looks at their small gathering with an expression of surprise on his bearded face. "Oh. It seems you were quite entertained while I was away."

Lestrade snorts. "Actually, I was just going to leave. Doctor." He nods at the newcomer. "John, Sherlock; we'll talk another time." Then he disappears with a small wave in their direction.

"Well?" The man casts a questioning glance at the Consulting Detective, but Sherlock just stares at him intently, his hands folded behind his back. The name plate clipped to the front pocket of his coat identifies him as Doctor Adam Hanson. _Married, two… no three children (one set of twins), has just celebrated his forty-third birthday, drinks too much coffee and has been on shift for at least twenty hours_. _Utterly boring._

John sights at his friends obvious lack of manners. "Dr. Hanson, this is Sherlock Holmes, my flatmate." He looks from one man to the other. "I don't mind if he stays. I was going to tell him anyway."

Hanson nods. "All right. Nice to meet you Mr. Holmes." He pulls two x-ray negatives out of a brown envelope and clips them to the light screen. "Then let's have a look, shall we?"

The pictures show the upper part of John's torso back and front. And what catches his eye first is the white L-shaped metal plate they used to hold his shoulder blade together. It contrasts sharply with the lighter outline of his bones and the darker space where the upper part of John's left lung _should_ be.

The first time Sherlock saw the scars on John's body, he had deduced - by means of the (supposed) position of the man's body and the trajectory of the projectile – the damage the bones, muscles and different tissues had taken. And he had known immediately that John's left lung had been one of the organs affected. A human lung extends from the diaphragm up to approximately an inch above the clavicle. There was no way the bullet could have missed that. So Sherlock is not surprised at what he sees. Neither is Hanson but since he is a doctor and has probably seen those pictures before, that's to be expected. And John; well he should know first-hand, right?

Hanson points at a dark irregular mass under the left collarbone: "This structural analysis here is the haematoma we talked about earlier, Dr. Watson. No surprise there. It's absolutely necessary to do something about that. And fast. The free blood in the tissue is already compressing the muscle and the surrounding blood vessels and you're obviously cyanotic."

John nods from his place on the examination table. He doesn't look surprised. "Pale skin and blue tinted fingertips. That means the tissue doesn't get enough oxygen," he murmurs as an explanation.

Sherlock snorts offended. "Thank you very much, but I _do_ know that, John."

"Well…" Hanson pauses to suppress the grin that is so obviously threatening to overwhelm his features. "Since we're apparently all experts here, let's continue with the next problem, yes?"

Sherlock gestures for him to continue and the doctor turns to the second negative. "We've found a hair fracture in the scapula. Right here." His finger follows an invisible line across the bone and this time John stands up to have a closer look at the picture. Sherlock sees nothing, but John apparently does. He nods in confirmation. "That doesn't look too bad actually."

"Yes," Hanson agrees. "But the screws that hold the fixation in place have broken out. We have to remove it in any case. The metal is craping over the periosteum. That's what makes it so painful right now. However; the good news is that the fracture doesn't stretch though the whole bone. So when we remove the plate, we can remove it for good. No replacement necessary. I assume you already had an appointment for that?"

John has closed his eyes and releases a reassured sigh. "Yes. In January, actually."

Hanson miles at John's obvious relief. "Hm. We cannot wait long enough for the army to send us your medical files but those x-rays and the print outs from the ultrasound give us a pretty good impression of what's going on. Our administration will try to get a hold on the colleague, who was responsible for your treatment so far, but that is standard procedure in cases like yours. So no worries here." Hanson scribbles something on John's patient chart and looks up again. "Is there anything we should know of? Allergies, intolerances, medical anomalies?"

John shakes his head. "No, nothing. So, when am I scheduled for?"

"I got you an appointment with Doctor Morgenstern at 10am. He starts his shift in about an hour. That gives him nearly two hours to prepare and that's more than most emergency patients get." He unclips the x-rays and adds them to John's file. "When was the last time you ate something?"

"Yesterday around noon."

"Good." Again Hanson adds something to the chart. "Let's keep it that way for now… Well." He puts his pen into the breast pocket of his coat. "I'm going to send a nurse to get you settled and prepare you for the operation."

John and Sherlock exchange a meaningful glare and Doctor Hanson actually chuckles at that.

"Don't worry. I'll make sure that Sandra will be occupied elsewhere."

"Sandra?"

"Carter. Sandra Carter. I heard that she got her hands on both of you, earlier." He winces. "Sometimes she is just a little overeager."

"Overeager?" Sherlock's voice could cut glass. "If that is her usual behaviour, you're lucky nobody has pressed charges yet."

"Sherlock." John's warning objection is mostly ignored.

Hanson just shrugs. "I'm not responsible for the personnel policy in this facility. But that's beside the point. Mr. Holmes. I'd recommend you use the time to go home to grab a change of clothes for yourself and pack a small bag for your partner. He'll probably need to stay for a few days."

The Consulting Detective nods. "What do I …"

"I'm not his partner." John sputters. He can literally feel the heat creeping into his face. "I mean… I… I am but… We're not…" In the end he just sights exasperated and rolls his eyes. "You know what? Just… forget it. It's not important."

Hanson looks at them with a hint of embarrassment. "I'm sorry if I misinterpreted something here. No offense meant."

"None taken", Sherlock interjects with casual aloofness and continues his interrupted sentence: "What do I need to pack?"

"The usual. Toiletries, a change of clothing to sleep in, a pair of slacks, t-shirts, a few changes of underwear." The doctor shrugs. "Nothing special."

"Well." Hanson clears his throat. "I need to get going. Doctor Watson. Mr. Holmes." He shakes their hands. "I'll step by tomorrow in the evening to see how you're doing."

Sherlock huffs after the door falls closed behind the other man. "He was in quite a hurry to leave, don't you think?"

"Can't imagine why."

The Consulting Detective opens his mouth, undoubtedly to throw himself into a lengthy explanation but John stalls him with his raised right hand. "Don't." he says. "I was being sarcastic, Sherlock."

"Oh."

"Why do people always assume that we're a couple?" John asks with an irritated frown.

"I don't know, John. Perhaps it's my shining charisma?"

John blinks. "Was that a joke?"

"Yes."

"A-ha."

"No good?"

This question makes John chuckle. ""You should work on that one."

"Duly noted." Sherlock blesses him with a rare honest smile.

John smiles back before he gets serious again. "Sherlock; because of what you did earlier…" he begins and unconsciously echoes the Detectives words from The Pool, "helping me with my… episode. Thank you for that one."

Sherlock nods. "You're welcome. Someone once told me that's what friends are for."

"That someone was probably right."

"Oh, he was definitely right."

John smiles at those familiar words. "You don't have to stay, you know. I'll be okay on my own."

The other man gets up with a short nod. "All right. I'll go home and get some things for you. But I want to give you something to think about before I leave: Harrison McKay would have shot me today if you hadn't reacted the way you did. So no matter what you were actually thinking in those moments, you still ended up saving my life." He winks at his puzzled flatmate. "Just think about it."

John huffs and this time it's embarrassment that brings a light flush on his face. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't forget my toothbrush."

The Consulting Detective laughs a little. "I won't. I'll be back before they take you to surgery."

John takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Thank you", he mutters but there is nobody in the room to hear his words.

Sherlock has already left.

ooOO0OOoo


End file.
